


The Story of My Skin

by whatsun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: After Series 3, Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, Post-Canon, Rape, Violence, messaging, this all happened in a night I'm sorry, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsun/pseuds/whatsun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It looks beautiful, John thinks absently, and the day is filled with potential.</p><p> </p><p>He never was the same after that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Started Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this all sort if happened in two hours. I just finished a chapter if All That I Have, and I opened a blank word document and... Well...
> 
> Written more for me than for an audience, so I'm sorry if it's a little difficult to follow. 
> 
> As ever, do enjoy my pretties.

**The Story of My Skin**

John stands by as the detective crouches by the body of what had once been a dancer in the West End. It’s a cold March morning, and the frost still clings to the ground, giving it a silver sheen. It looks beautiful, John thinks absently, and the day is filled with potential. After the case, he and Sherlock will head over to Angelo’s for breakfast. John will have a full English and tea, and Sherlock will have his own tea, but won’t order breakfast. John will pretend not to notice as Sherlock steals his toast and a rasher of bacon, because really, Sherlock needs the calories more than he does. Once they’ve had breakfast, they’ll go home, and John will have a shower and update his blog, and Sherlock will alternate between playing violent symphonies on the violin and throwing things at the wall. It promises to be a good day.

John’s mobile vibrates against his leg from where it sits in his pocket. He pulls it out with one hand, not really looking, too distracted by the way Sherlock’s coat frames his silhouette and he rises from his crouch. They make eye contact for a second, and John catches the almost-smile that Sherlock gives him, returning a full smile at the detective.

He’s gorgeous like this, John thinks. High on the adrenalin provided by the metropolitan police, Sherlock is impossibly alive, eyes seeing everything all at once and brain processing more than the rest of the men and women that huddled around could even be thinking.

John glanced down at the device in his hand. It’s a picture message, from an unknown number that is hidden. Turning his back to the crime scene to give himself the illusion of privacy, he slides his thumb across the screen to view the message. The picture doesn’t load at first, so he presses it absently, wondering if some poor girl has accidently send nudes to the wrong guy (if so, he will delete them immediately, he tells himself), or if someone is deliberately sending him pictures of something, as a practical joke or whatnot.

He does not expect that when the picture loads he will see blood. He is not expecting the image to contain a smooth expanse of skin, marred by a long, open wound from the bottom of the girl’s right shoulder blade to her left hip. Red is welling out across the paleness of her spine, which is hunched over, a collar of chain wrapped around her neck, no doubt pulling her down.  The gash itself is clean, precise, and John has seen enough in his time by Sherlock’s side to know that this is a knife wound. He knows, from his time as a doctor, that it is deep, and that it will hurt.

It takes a second for his mind to catch up with what he is seeing. When he does, his eyes slam shut of his own violation, attempting to block out the gruesome sight that is flashing across his irises. Blindly, he shouts for Sherlock, hearing him stride over to where John stands.

“John? What is it?”

The concern in his voice is almost enough to prompt John to speak, but instead, he thrusts the mobile at the detective. He listens as Sherlock’s breath stops for a brief moment, before he feels the mobile being pushed back into his hand.

“Ignore it.”

“What?” John screeches, shocked at the total lack of consideration displayed by his flatmate. It is not often these days that Sherlock will ignore something like this. Since John had moved back home, he had become softer, more accepting and certainly more sympathetic, even if he preferred not to show it outwardly. “How can you do that? How can you look at that and think it’s okay to just ignore it.”

He was shouting now, and he didn’t care. He raised the phone to illustrate his point, only to see that the message had been deleted. Sherlock, for his part merely shrugged.

“It was unimportant.” He sounds almost bored, and suddenly John is livid, and beyond all rationality.

“Unimportant. _Unimportant?_ Jesus, do you even hear yourself, you arrogant prick? You saw that. Some poor girl is being tortured and you say it’s unimportant? You utter monster.”

John doesn’t miss the way Sherlock flinches, and it surprises a small part of himself, just under his sternum, that he doesn’t care right now.

Lestrade stands uncertainly between them, gaze flickering back and forth over them. A tense moment passed, a stalemate during which neither moved, until a throat was cleared somewhere in the vicinity of the body.

“You’ll find the killer in the audience tonight. Ginger, navy blue suit.”

With that, he was gone.

His nails are leaving indents in his palms, John realises, as he watches his friend hail a cab, without so much as looking back. His breath in coming in gasps and he has to forcibly regain control of himself, fighting the urge to go after him and smack the look of dismissal right off his goddamn face.

“John?” Greg is talking to him with the patience that one uses for an angry child. It only serves in infuriate him further.

“I got a text,” he grits out, “a picture, of someone, a girl, I think, with this – this cut up her back. Looked like someone had y’know, just slashed at her with a knife.”

Lestrade’s face pales. “Can I see?”

John shakes his head. “He bloody deleted the picture, didn’t he?”

With that he storms past the yellow police tape, not stopping to hear Lestrade calling out after him.

*

Sherlock is not home when John ascends the stairs, and for that small mercy, he is grateful. He has no desire to deal with a sociopathic flatmate at the present, and he needs tea. The kitchen however, is cluttered with science equipment. Beakers and test tubes and a Bunsen burner all fill the space that John needs. He sees red.

“ _Sherlock_!” he screams.

There is no answer. Of course there isn’t. It’s enough that John loses his tenuous grip on his morals and sweeps the unclean apparatus to the floor. It shatters with an unsatisfactory cascade of glass. As he stands among the crystalline shards that litter the floor, he listens to his ragged breathing and curses his housemate.

His fondness from the morning is gone, he realises. It could never have been strong, if this is enough to break it like the glass at John’s feet. Or perhaps it was too strong, and the fragments on the linoleum are testimony to the betrayal that thumps in John’s chest with each pulse of his heart.

He closes his eyes, and lets the pain of the morning crush him, just for a little while. His phone buzzes, and he knows, he _knows_ before he opens it what he will find.

This time the angle is different. It’s been taken from the front this time, and John realises that his initial assumption had been wrong. This is not the body of a woman. The muscles that are tightly wound beneath the skin are that of a man, and his chest is flat. Though his hair reaches past his shoulders, his head is pulled pack, and John cannot garner anything that might indicate his identity. A mark is etched into his skin. Four lines, one vertical, the others horizontal and bisecting the other at the same angle. The one in the middle is shorter than the others, but looks the deepest. John takes a deep breath and phone Lestrade.

*

The two men groan in synchrony. Whoever was sending the messages was smart. Smart enough to bounce them off several satellites, effectively making the source unidentifiable. Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose.

John turns to the man who peers over their shoulders. “Is there nothing else we can do?”

In jeans and a hoodie, the man is hardly what John pictured when the superintendent had said ‘expert’, but then who is he to argue with experience?  He shrugs. “I’ll take the file, see what I can do back at the office.”

It’s not what John wants to hear. He wants answers, but he nods anyway and lets the man download the file.

When he get home, the glass is gone from the floor.

*

A week passes, then another. There is no response from ‘the office’, and John continues to receive picture after picture of torture. As the third week anniversary of the first picture arrives, John’s phone beeps a message at him.

He is sat in his chair, pointedly ignoring Sherlock’s presence at the desk. He has yet to replace his science equipment, or if he has, he has hidden them well. They’ve barely spoken in the past few weeks, and John hates it. He hate that he feels as if every message drives them apart. He hates that Sherlock refuses to have any part in the investigation, and he hates that the lump of betrayal that sit heavily on his chest grow with each day that passes without an exchange of words.

This time, when he pulls out his mobile, it is a video. John’s stomach twists as he imagines what he will see upon opening it. The screen goes momentarily black as it starts, and John can see his reflection, and feel cold mercurial eyes lingering on him. It’s a short clip, blessedly, but John winces.

There is a man, speaking a language that John does not recognise. He is repeating something, over and over, and the other, the victim is sobbing, pleading it sounds like. Without warning, the first takes hold of the man’s leg, repeats his part once more and twists. The scream that follows is almost enough to drown out the grind and crunch as breaking bone twists under the skin.

“Delete that.”

He looks up to see that Sherlock is closer than he thought, and he twitches back. “No.”

Sherlock practically growls, reaching for the phone, but John is faster, pushing him aside. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you? Why can you not just respond how normal people do for fucks sake? Get the hell out.”

Sherlock’s voice is quiet after the tone of his.“I am not ‘normal’ John, you know that.”

He holds his hand out for the phone. John’s angry, immoral and stupid side takes over.

“You’re right. You’re not normal. You’re a bloody freak.” He snarls, letting the superficial hatred he feels flow into his words.

It takes a second for the response to come. When it does, it cuts John deeper than any murder he’s seen before. One by one, he sees the days of friendship undo themselves. Sherlock’s mouth become a straight line, his eyes become flat and lifeless, and his posture changes from frustrated to formal.

“As you wish.”

It’s articulate and proper and there is no trace of the lisp that sometimes colours his voice when he hasn’t slept enough. John reaches out, only for Sherlock to step away.

The door closes behind him with the muted thud.

*

It’s been four days since he last saw Sherlock. John stands in the bathroom, razor in hand, trying to forget the words burned onto his prefrontal cortex. There have been no picture, and no videos since then, and he feels like he’s playing a waiting game. He feels like a goddamn pawn in a game of chess made up of only queens.

*

Over a week after his last encounter with Sherlock, John is standing in the kitchen, watching his tea brew. His phone vibrates and he hates how his hand moves to his pocket to free it. He hate that he presses play and he hates that he stands there and watches.

The man, whoever he may be, is lying naked on a thin mattress. It’s dirty and crusted with drying blood. John can see the month old, original wound on his back, along with others, infected and oozing. As he watches, he notices that hands are holding him down, pinning his limbs. He waits for the crack of bone, or the gleam of a knife, but it does not come. Instead, another bare body enters the frame, face carefully pixilated, and positions himself behind the man on the mattress.

He knows what’s about to happen. He fucking _knows_ he is about to watch a man he has never met get raped, and what can he do? He stand there, and he fucking watches as the scream echoes around the cell wherever he is being kept, he watches as the man with the hidden face pushes into his unprepared body with a pace that would hurt even the most cared for lovers. He watches as he begins to move, grunting like an animal as the man below screams in agony. He watches as he orgasms, and pulls back. He watches as they leave. He watches the tiny, broken and bleeding man sob and he bleeds. And then the video ends.

John retches into the sink.

*

When Lestrade calls him the following afternoon, he thinks that maybe they’ve found something, something that will stop this, stop the pictures, the hell. He hopes, however childishly that if this goes away, Sherlock will come back to him, as if he hasn’t hurt him worst of all.

“It’s Sherlock,” says the voice over the telephone.

“I don’t think – ” John begins.

“He’s hurt.”

That’s all it takes.

*

Sherlock is propped up in the corner of the room. Red stains his white shirt, his blood covering the front of his chest. John reaches for him, and he recoils sluggishly.

“Please,” John begs, “please, Sherlock, you’re bleeding out.”

He shakes his head, “Not you.” It’s a whisper of breath.

John knows he won’t make it until the ambulance arrives. Surely he must too.

In the end it doesn’t matter. Sherlock goes limp as unconsciousness takes him, and John pulls him out of the corner and into space. He tears open the shirt, intent on finding the wound on his chest that is causing all of this blood to seep through his clothes. And then he stops.

On Sherlock’s chest are four lines. One vertical, three horizontal.

John rolls him over. On his back, from under his right shoulder blade to his left hip is a scar. Once a deep wound.

“John what the hell are you doing?”

He looks up at Lestrade, cradling Sherlock’s fragile body to his own.

“It was him. This whole time. It was him.”

And it all suddenly made sense. 


	2. It Concludes Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where do we go from here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There a little bit of medical stuff here, which, I'll be honest, I have very little knowledge of. I tried to do a little bit of research, but if there's anyone who spots something off, do let me know.

John loosely cradled the hand without the IV, as the blonde nurse changed the dressing on Sherlock's chest, wiping the dried blood away with antiseptic wipes. He let his fingers weave their way between Sherlock's, tethering himself to the bedside.

As the nurse left, he let his eyes trace the paper-thin skin of his face. By the time John had reached him, he had lost nearly three pints of blood, and now it was clearly visible. The knife had narrowly missed both his heart and lungs, leaving him in shock and gasping, even as he bled out. Now, nearly 48 hours, and several transfusions later, he was stable, and the risk of cardiac arrest had dropped significantly. Still, John was loathe to leave him. He wouldn’t abandon him again, he told himself.

The door swung open behind him, whispering across the floor. John turned to see Mycroft walk into the room, carrying his customary umbrella and a briefcase, which he deposited on the chair across the room from his own. He did not sit, as John had, but stood opposite him, looking down at him from across Sherlock’s body.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to go home, can I?” He speaks with the resignation of someone who knows his answer.

“I’m not –, ” John sighs, “I can’t leave him. Not like this.”

Mycroft inclines his head in understanding, remaining stood resolutely by his brother bedside. They continued to watch Sherlock’s passive figure, both lost in their own thoughts. John traced the veins visible beneath the translucent skin of his hand, desperately trying to distract himself from the very real possibility that his friend, his _best_ friend might not wake up. And it was likely his fault.

John can’t help but feel the weight of the blame resting squarely on his shoulders. If Sherlock had trusted him enough, if John had been there like he should have been, then perhaps he would have known, perhaps Sherlock would have confided in him, rather than shutting him out. If he hadn’t reacted the way he had, yelling at Sherlock for turning away, then he would have been there when he was hurt, wouldn’t have let him be hurt in the first place.

_He should have told you,_ whispers a tiny part of John, somewhere at the back of his head, reaching for any possibility of self-absolution. But this too only serves to show how he has failed Sherlock; how he tries to displace his anger.

And how many times has he seen that body? He’s seen it countless times, had to stitch it up nigh on a million times, seen it draped languidly over the sofa in nought but a sheet, and felt its weight leaning against him in a cab after a taxing case. And yet, after what feels like an eternity together, he failed to recognise it when it mattered.

*

“John.”

John twitches awake, pushing himself up, off the side of the bed where he has been resting his head. The pattern of the rough hospital blanket is no doubt temporarily printed on his cheek as he looks up.

Mycroft looks back at him with what resembled pity in his eyes. “Go and have a shower,” he offers him the briefcase that he brought in, two days ago now, “get yourself clean and get changed. You can’t do anything for him right now.”

It’s true. John knows it is. With Sherlock unconscious, he won’t even notice if John leaves. It’s only for ten minutes anyway, he reasons. And he probably does smell. Not to mention the blood that stains his sleeves and front. It’s best to go now, before Sherlock is awake to notice his absence.

He takes the case, not questioning how Mycroft managed to pick the one jumper the Sherlock had once complimented, and walks to the bathroom.

*

When he returns, Sherlock’s parents have taken his place, not even looking up as he walks in. He doesn’t blame them; Sherlock looks like he could slip away any moment, although they have been assured that he is stable. He stands awkwardly by the door, feeling like an imposter, yet reluctant to leave.

It feels like forever before the silence is broken, once again by Mycroft. “Tea?”

There is a round of affirmative murmurs, and Mycroft sweeps out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. John remained, alongside his parents, watching the unconscious form in the bed, counting each rise and fall of his chest, every beep of the heart rate monitor.

*

It was another day later, three days since John had had his whole perception of the world flipped, before Sherlock showed any signs of wakefulness. His parents and his brother had left briefly, to get themselves a meal, leaving John to his silent vigil. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, his long eyelashes flickering like shadows against his pale cheekbones, and his fingers curled slightly as the muscles in his hand tensed. John held his breath as the pale turquoise eyes opened slowly, blinking sluggishly in the relative brightness of the hospital room. He inhaled deeply, if a little laboured, and cast a glance around the room, letting his head loll to the side.

Upon seeing John, his eyes widened and he took another gasping breath, immediately trying to push himself into a sitting position to face him. John clambered up, holding his hands out pleadingly.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, stop.” He stilled, wincing with pain and breathing irregularly through his nose. “You need to lie back down – you need to rest.”

He shook his head, “You – I don’t want –” he broke off again, eyes closing.

“Look, I... I get it, if you don’t want me here, that fine, but please, just lie down,” John implored, “you’re only going to hurt yourself more.”

He gently nudged him back down to the bed, supporting his back in an attempt to take some of the strain off Sherlock’s muscles. When he was resituated on his bed, John gingerly straightened the cannula  under his nose and stood, with the intent to leave, and possibly alert Sherlock’s family to his awakening.

A hand brushed his, fingertips fluttering against his palm, trying to close themselves around his wrist. John flinched, looking down to see Sherlock gazing up at him, mercurial eyes tired. He let him hand be held for a moment, before frowning.  

“Sherlock?”

“Stay.” It was whispered quietly enough that John nearly missed it.

He sank back down into the chair, closing his fingers around Sherlock’s.  “Are you sure? You didn’t seem to –”

He shook his head. “Just don’t – look at me. Like that. It’s... I – I don’t know,” he breathed, squeezing his eyes closed.

John didn’t reply, only stroked his thumb across his hand in an attempt to reassure him.

*

Sherlock paused halfway up the staircase, gripping the banister and bowing his head, clearly in pain. He swayed alarmingly on his feet, prompting John to reach out, steadying him with a hand on his lower back.

“Alright?”

He nodded, continuing to ascend the stairs, neither man mentioning the way he leaned into John’s touch as he climbed.

*

Sherlock was asleep in John’s chair when he came downstairs in the morning for tea. Sherlock’s limbs were curled underneath him, his feet resting on one arm, his head resting on the backrest. It looked bizarrely uncomfortable, but his face was peaceful. John left him alone, flicking the kettle on and making them both a mug of tea.

He left Sherlock’s on the table beside the chair, taking his own and settling across the room, on the sofa. Though he opened the newspaper over his lap, he remained focused on Sherlock. Despite having been out of hospital for almost a week now, there was little to no improvement. He ate infrequently, often claiming nausea, and the bruise-like shading under his eyes did not fade, no matter how early he went to bed.

He hadn’t spoken much either, ignoring John almost continuously. Nevertheless, he sought out his presence, trailing after him whenever he moved into another room. John had learned not to initiate conversation, lest he shy away.

As the sunlight began to push out the shadows, Sherlock began to stir, stretching his legs out in front of him with several satisfying sounding cracks. He groaned, letting his head fall back, loosening the muscles that had no doubt cramped as he slept in the awkward position in the chair. Noticing the tea left near his elbow, he twisted, looking at John over his shoulder. He said nothing, but smiled timidly, nodding to the tea in thanks.

*

John woke up sluggishly, light dancing over his face. He was drape awkwardly on the sofa, one arm hanging off, and the other thrown backwards over the arm. The television played colours throughout the room, causing the shadows to flicker on the floor.

There was a sound further down the corridor, towards Sherlock’s room, and John heaved himself up in order to check on him. When he rounded the corner however, it appeared to have been Sherlock himself that had woken John. He was now hovering half in, half out of his bedroom, looking as if he had intended to emerge, but had been caught at unawares, and was now unsure of what to do.

“You alright?”

Sherlock nodded mutely.

“You, uh, need a glass of water?”

He cleared his throat, “yeah, yeah that’s – good. Please.”

John stepped into the kitchen, taking a glass from the cupboard and filling it with tap water. “You need anything else?”

Sherlock shook his head minutely, accepting the water and taking several, small sips. Both men stood awkwardly for a second, before John moved to go upstairs, going to change into a pair of pajamas.

By the time he had done so, returning to brush his teeth downstairs, Sherlock had once again settled in his chair, resting his cheek on the plaid material. John watched him for a moment, before padding over to him, waiting for him to turn before addressing him.

“You not sleeping in bed?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but closed it again, colour rising to his face. He stood, pivoting on his feet unstably, as if to return to his room, before John’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Have you been sleeping out here every night?”

He nodded, slowly, as if unwilling to admit to it.

“Why?”

Sherlock hesitated before speaking. “I just – I had... uh, nightmares, I suppose.” He shuffled awkwardly on his feet.

“About the stabbing? Or – the other stuff?” John winced inwardly at the implications of his words.

“The – uh – the other stuff,” he muttered, looking away.

“Does it help, being out here instead of bed?”

“Yeah.” He sounded forlorn, curling his toes against the carpet.

“Do you – I mean, if you wanted – You could sleep in my room.” At Sherlock’s inquisitive look, he hastily added, “I’ll sleep in yours, if you wanted to. It was just an idea, if being somewhere else – ”

“I’d rather you were there.” It was said harshly, blurted out almost unintentionally. “I mean – it’s fine if – you wanted to... stay?”

John smiled softly. “Sure. Let me brush my teeth and I’ll be right up.”

*

He could feel the heat of Sherlock’s body from across the bed.

“This okay?”

His reply was a vague hum in the affirmative. He grinned; Sherlock sounded as if he was already half asleep. Hopefully up here, outside his own room, he might get some more sleep, speeding the rate of his recovery.

It wasn’t long after Sherlock’s gentle snores began that John drifted off.

*

When morning dawned the following day, John woke to long arms draped across him, effectively pinning him to the mattress. Despite being restricted, he smiled. Warmth radiated out from the body beside him, almost uncomfortably so, and soft puffs of breath were damp against his neck. Close together like this, John could smell Sherlock, his hair tickling the tip of his nose.

He felt the moment that he began to wake, stretching against his body, a faint noise of content escaping him. Sherlock stiffened as he came to, his breath stuttering until John touched a hand to his shoulder.

“It’s me, you’re alright,” he murmured.

Sherlock relaxed against him. “Obviously.” There was mirth in his voice as he peeked up at John. With a more serious note in his voice he contined, “I just, I don’t know, panicked for a moment.”

“S’fine. It’s normal.”

“Yeah.”

John yawned. “We good then?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course, I just – I was worried, I suppose.”

John turned to face him, gesturing for him to continue.

“I thought maybe you’d try to, you know – mollycoddle me. But... well you have, to some extent, but you haven’t done what I expcted.”

He nodded. “What did you expect?”

“You to try and make me talk about it. Get me to go to therapy or something.”

“Would it help you to talk?”

Sherlock pulled a face. “I doubt it.”

“Well then I won’t ask. But I’m here, alright?”

He grinned. “I know.”

*

“I like this tradition.”

“What? Make John fall out of his bed in the middle of the night?”

Sherlock laughed, stretching languidly. “It’s hardly my fault your balance is poor.”

“Yes it is! You get me right on the edge of the bed with all your wriggling,” John smacked him with a pillow.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Well alright, but just being here, it’s... nice.”

John smiled. “Yeah. Plus I get a six foot tall living blanket.”

Sherlock smirked. Now a semi-permanent fixture in John’s bed, he squirmed down under the covers, watching John with a pair of bright eyes. This early in the morning, the day was filled with potential.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that!
> 
> The end is open to your own interpretation; are they together? Aren't they? It's up to you, but they remain each others' best friend regardless (as is the beauty of their friendship).
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> As always, comments brighten my day, and I love reading them, so let me know how I've done - good or bad.
> 
> All the best.

**Author's Note:**

> Well? What do you think? It's a little patchy, I know, but comments are always appreciated, especially those who give me feedback to improve.
> 
> Much love to you all


End file.
